


New Year's (independence) Day

by notevenjokingfic



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:21:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenjokingfic/pseuds/notevenjokingfic
Summary: This one-shot is part of the @thelallybrochlibrary Prompt Exchange on Tumblr.Prompt:  Jamie and Claire both work in politics.  Jamie is a strong proponent of an independent Scotland.  Claire is sent to Scotland to try to get him to tone it down, from @wordlady60.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 58
Kudos: 195





	New Year's (independence) Day

**7:48 am.**

The black sedan rolls up in front of St. Andrew’s House on the south side of Calton Hill, Edinburgh. 

“We’re here, Ma’am,” the driver announces unnecessarily, as it’s obvious where they are. To call it a House is a misnomer. This place is huge. The large, grey stone building with its art deco style is the headquarters of the Scottish Government. 

Claire reaches across the seat to gather her things. Her hands shake a little as she fumbles for the strap of her purse, and the handles of her briefcase.

When the car door opens, she swings her legs around, and steps out. She has to steady herself for a moment on weak knees. This meeting is incredibly important. As a representative of the NHS, Dr. Claire Beauchamp is here for one thing, and one thing only. To talk the Health Secretary into voting against an Independent Scotland using the NHS as bait. 

The air inside the government building is as damp and dreich as the weather outside. Claire’s heels click loudly, in contrast to the softer treads of the men she’s with – assistants, lawyers, other doctors. And yet, she’s been told by Downing Street to run point on this. 

The large wooden door to the meeting room is propped open, and Claire enters first. The room is imposing. The Saltire has a place of honour on the south wall, while Scotland’s Coat of Arms hangs opposite. The long wooden table is set with a legal pad of paper, several pens, and a bottle of water at each seat. 

She searches the place cards for her name, sits down. She’s smack dab in the middle. No need to look across the table, she knows what she’ll find. 

She’s going to be up against the Cabinet Secretary for Health and Sport, Mr. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. A quick meeting with the powers that be, including the Prime Minister, provided her with everything she needed to know. Young, smart, and fierce, the Secretary is a vocal proponent for Independence. 

She has her work cut out for her.

The chatter outside the door is the first indication that he’s arrived. A flurry of activity happens behind her, and she turns to see a crowd of serious-looking people enter, all holding portfolios and papers.

Secretary Fraser enters, and smiles. His blue eyes flash with good humour, and he approaches her right away.

“Dr. Beauchamp, pleasure to meet ye,” he says, engulfing her hand with his, holding it a little longer than protocol deems.

“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Secretary.” He’s taller than she imagined, and his hair really is the most glorious shade of red. It’s tousled, with a hint of curl despite the neat cut. 

“Please,” he says, “let’s all sit down, shall we?” He sweeps a hand in the direction of the table as he moves to his own seat. “We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Claire tucks the skirt of her dress under her bum, and settles in for the fight of her life.

**11:15 a.m.**

“Dr. Beauchamp,” Fraser says, hours into the debate, “Scotland has had operational control of its own health services since 1999. We reorganised in 2004, providing care in all areas, and removed the split between organisations commissioning, and providing services, which is used in England. Independence won’t even be a blip on the radar of our NHS.”

“Except you’ve removed patients’ choice over which provider they can use for some procedures. That’s going to make it even more difficult for Scots to find a specialist, which may lead to privatization and charging for health care. If you leave the UK, you risk a two-tiered healthcare system.”

Jamie’s eyes narrow at her across the table. “Dinnae use those scare tactics on me, Sassenach.”

The collective gasp from the SNP half of the table puts a momentary halt to the discussion.

“I’m sorry,” Claire says. “What did you call me?” 

Fraser has to good grace to blush to the tips of his ears. “My apologies, Dr. Beauchamp. I meant no disrespect. It’s just that I’ve been threatened with a two-tiered system before, and I dinnae like it. I reacted poorly. Please, forgive me.” 

“But what does it mean, Mr. Secretary?” Her eyes flash like fire as she sits back in her chair, hands folded tightly in her lap. 

  
  


“It means,” he hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. He visibly collects himself, then faces her squarely. “It means English person, or Outsider.”

She clenches her jaw to keep from screaming.  _ Bloody fucking bastard. How dare he? _

“I’d like to take a brief recess, if we may,” Claire states, and stands up before permission is given. Back straight, she pulls open the meeting room door with more force than necessary, and half walks, half runs down the corridor praying she’ll find a Ladies soon so she can disappear.

Jamie stands, and moves around the table motioning for his team to just stay put. “I’ll handle this,” he says to the room in general. “Go for lunch. We’ll meet back in an hour.” 

She’s already quite a way down the hall before he reaches the doorway. “Dr. Beauchamp!” he hollers, but she turns sharply, and is gone into the one place he can’t follow.

Inside the bathroom, Claire is raging. She’s so angry she could spit. She kicks a trash can, and slams a few stall doors for good measure. 

“Fucking OUTSIDER am I?” she screams into the room, the echo mocking her. “Fucking BASTARD.” She looks at her reflection in the mirror. Her hand is at her lips, covering her mouth so she doesn’t scream again. Her face is hot, and her eyes are swimming in angry tears. She grips the edge of the sink before her and rocks back and forth, trying to dispel the rage in her body. 

While she believes leaving the UK is a huge mistake, at this point she can’t see any redeeming qualities in this country, or its representatives.  _ Why on earth would anyone want these miserable, stubborn sods to stay?  _ she says to herself in the mirror.  __ She turns on the cold water, and lets it run over her wrists. Closing her eyes, and breathing deeply, she regains control of her emotions. 

She dries her hands, smooths her palms over her hair, and sets her dress to rights. 

When she opens the door of the bathroom, he’s there, leaning against the wall, arms and legs crossed. Arms that strain the sleeves of his well-cut jacket, and legs that look impossibly long in the navy suit he’s wearing. 

He straightens at the sight of her, and jams his hands in his pockets. He has the good sense to look sheepish.

“I’m an eejit, Dr. Beauchamp,'' he says. “A ‘fucking bastard’.”

It’s Claire’s turn to blush. 

“And, if I may,'' he says with all sincerity, and not a small amount of charm, “I would very much like to take ye to lunch, and make it up to ye.”

  
  


**1:38 p.m.**

“How did you get into politics, Dr. Beauchamp?” he asks, pushing his plate a little off to the side. He’s never had a more interesting dining companion. Claire is witty, and smart. She asks all the right questions. He’s had to stay on his toes, revealing plans for every eventuality, every worst-case scenario that the NHS could face. She prods him on budget concerns, future projections. She throws up concerns at lightning speed, and expects equally fast answers. 

He’s enthralled. 

“Completely by accident. I was at a dinner party at Gilly’s, and talk of the -”

“Gilly?” Jamie interrupts. “Are ye talkin’ about Prime Minister Gillian Edgars?”

“Yes,” Claire smiles. “I am. She and I went to school together. Geillis is what we called her, a Scottish nickname. Gillian was pre-law, and I was pre-med. We lived in the same residence hall, on the same floor, our first year. Been close friends ever since.”

Jamie sits back in his chair, stunned into silence. He listens as Claire explains how Prime Minister Edgars recruited her to help study the effectiveness of the NHS, and how best to make it efficient for the whole of the UK, including Scotland. 

“So ye were tasked to make me an offer I canna refuse, is that it?” Jamie is suddenly very aware of Edgars’s tactic.

“Prime Minister Edgars is Scottish,” Claire reminds him. “She’ll do whatever she needs to, to keep the UK together.”

There is an awkward silence. Claire watches as Jamie taps two fingers together against his leg. His mind is working overtime; she can see it.

“And you, Mr. Secretary?” she asks, hoping to ease the tension. “What brought you to your current position?”

“Politics is in my blood,” he says, with a hint of mischief in his eye. “My six times Great Uncle Dougal MacKenzie fought in the battle of Culloden. He funded the Jacobite rising of 1745 with rents he collected for the Laird. I’m a born secessionist.”

Claire gets a rather far-away look in her eyes at his answer. She’s gone somewhere, in her mind, and Jamie wants to be where she is, so he asks, “Something wrong, lass?”

“Oh, no,” she replies quickly. “It’s just...I’m an orphan. I know very little about my family’s past. I’m not sure I could trace past a great-grandmother, really, let alone discover any nefarious or daring deeds they may have done.”

“Well, dinnae be too impressed,” Jamie says. “The MacKenzie side of my family werena boy scouts.” His blue eyes turn sympathetic. “And I’m sorry about yer family.”

“It was a long time ago,” she says, effectively closing the matter. She leans forward on the table, tawny eyes boring into his. “Do you honestly think that leaving is the best thing for Scotland?” 

Fraser smiles, a half smile, and Claire’s heart stutters in her chest. Butterflies flutter in her tummy. “Come, Sassenach,” he says, teasing her. “Let me show ye around Edinburgh.”

**4:53 p.m.**

Claire watches him talk and is momentarily distracted. He’s been a perfect, but somewhat overly attentive, gentleman. Held her chair for her at lunch. Winked at her a few times in the course of the conversation, mildly teasing her about her accent, or before calling her that wretched name. She realizes now he was doing it for fun, to take the sting out of the slur. In the car, Jamie leaned toward her, his arm around the back of her seat, pointing at sights out the window, his face close to hers. When they walked around, his hand would land lightly on the small of her back or gently cup her elbow. What she finds most disarming is the way he gives her his full attention when she speaks. She finds it heady, and more than a little arousing. 

When she tunes in again, she picks up on what he’s saying. 

“The school is unique in that it teaches Gaelic from nursery age, all the way through the primary grades. It started in 1988, with seven children, and now has a roll of approximately 287 pupils.” The Secretary is standing tall, looking over the two-storey red brick building with pride. “What I love about it, is that some of these students will inevitably go on to work in the medical field. We have a scheme that rewards any Gaelic-speaking nurses or doctors who move to the Hebrides Islands to work, where Gaelic is still spoken.”

She feels like she’s drowning in a sea of history and culture. It’s clear that James Fraser loves his country. His knowledge of Scotland is more than impressive. She honestly doesn’t think she could do England justice were the tables turned. And she can’t help but wonder if he brings that level of passion to everything he does. And by everything _ ,  _ she means  _ everything.  _ His burr is a sexy mix of fact and fabrication as he tells story after story, one minute serious, the next light and teasing. It stirs up images of boardrooms, that turn into candlelit bedrooms.

Claire can’t stop staring at the golden strands that glisten among the deeper reds in his hair. Lifted by the brisk wind she notices there’re browns, too. Cinnamon, and russet tones. She’s fascinated by the five o’clock shadow that’s starting to sprout along his jaw. That detail jolts her out of her musings. She fumbles for her phone.

“Fuck!” she spits out. She reddens when she realizes what she’s said.

“Something I said?” Jamie jests, good naturedly.

“I’ve missed my flight, Mr. Secretary,” she says, embarrassed. “Well, I will miss it, in 8 minutes. I had my sound turned off for the meeting, and never turned it back on.” She waves the offending instrument at him. “Seems I’ve missed 17 calls, and 53 texts between lunch and now.” 

Jamie digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He laughs, a full-bodied laugh that makes her smile. Turning his screen toward her, all he says is, “Same.”

They go quiet for a few minutes, scrolling through their messages until Jamie breaks their silence.

“Well, then. There’s no help for it, but to enjoy Hogmanay.” He tips his head toward Claire and says, “Will ye allow me to show ye a proper way to bring in the New Year?”

“I really must try to get back to London,” Claire says. She can’t stay. She hasn’t got any luggage. No change of clothes. Nothing. “If I could get to the airport, I could arrange a later flight.”

“Are ye always so sensible, Claire?” Jamie asks, his blue eyes flashing. The half smile reappears. “Do ye never just, I dunno, go fer it?” 

For a brief moment, she thinks she reads a different message in his eyes. To go for it, throw caution to the wind, spend the night in Edinburgh. With him. On New Year’s Eve and all that it entails. Drinking, celebrating, kissing at the stroke of midnight. Spending the eve of a new year in the arms of a man she barely knows but finds wildly attractive, extremely interesting, and sexually inviting. 

“Mr. Secretary,” Claire says, eyes narrowed. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Thank Christ!” he says, arms thrown wide and up to Heaven like a preacher. “I was afraid I was that rusty.” 

“Cocky,” she mumbles.

“Confident,” he retorts. “Allow me, Dr. Beauchamp.” He crooks his arm like a gentleman waiting to escort a lady into a dinner party.

  
  


**10:58 p.m.**

Claire has never seen a street party like this one. 

She hangs on to Jamie with both hands as he weaves through the crowd. Sometimes he holds her hand, and sometimes she has to grab his waist to stay connected, to not get separated. It feels friendly, and incredibly intimate, at the same time. He’s very relaxed about it all, flashing that million dollar smile and those baby blues at her. The five o’clock shadow is well on its way to being stubble, and combined with the suit, he looks roguishly handsome. 

She doesn’t know if it’s the street performers, the DJ’s pulsing music, the very Celtic-sounding percussion band, or the slogan of Be Together that makes her fall in love.

Maybe it’s all of it.

However, it happens. Edinburgh captures her heart. 

As does her Scottish escort.

She hasn’t smiled this much, or laughed this hard, in ages. 

Jamie isn’t anonymous either. Many people recognize him, shake his hand, ask for pictures, wish him a Happy Hogmanay. He’s gracious and fun, and his jargon gets less sophisticated the more he’s around his people. Some shout to him in Gaelic, and he answers back flawlessly. Despite the suit, the politician is gone. Edinburgh’s son is home, and among them. They look at her curiously, but no one makes her feel uncomfortable. He buys a plate of neeps, tatties and haggis, encourages her to take a bite. He’s pleasantly surprised when she finds she likes it. They share a fork, and after her first bite, he licks his lips as he watches her mouth open for another taste, as she drags her lips along the utensil. It makes her shiver. As they share the plate, he tells her that 50p from every ticket is donated to the Brain Tumour Charity for research, as well as pastoral care and support to those who suffer, and their families.

“Are Scottish people always this generous?” she asks, wiping a bit of mashed potato off her lip, and sucking it off her thumb.

Jamie watches the movement of her tongue against her skin, and it makes her blush. When he finally meets her eyes he gives her that lopsided smile again, the one that makes her belly flip. “Aye,” he says. “We take care of our own.” 

As they jockey for position to watch the fireworks, Jamie has moved behind her. His hands rest lightly on her waist as if to protect her from the jostling crowd. She wants very much to lean back against that broad chest, but she doesn’t. 

She’s feeling so much. This morning she arrived to take a meeting in which she was sure she could make a difference, could make Secretary James Fraser see reason. Now she’s in the middle of a crowd of proud and excited Scots, after missing a flight, and blowing off her team. 

_ Be Together. _ The festival slogan is everywhere, and Claire concedes its message. The atmosphere is charged, the night electric, the excitement rising in her blood, pulsing, urging her to  _ just go for it. _

She turns around abruptly, throws her arms around his broad shoulders. “I get it now!” she shouts up at him over the music and the chatter.

“Say what?” he shouts back, dipping his head lower to hear her better, his arms encircling her waist. The movement puts them in even closer proximity. 

She steps closer still, presses her lower half to his, rests her lips next to his ear. “I get it now,” she says, sotto voce. “I understand. If I lived here, I’d want to preserve this, too. I wouldn’t want anyone, or anything, to threaten it.”

With the barest turn of his head Jamie’s lips are millimeters from hers. He smiles that megawatt smile. “Welcome to Scotland, Sassenach,” he says. 

The countdown starts, but they are already kissing well before the crowd shouts ONE! The noise from the music and fireworks is deafening. Claire feels, rather than hears, his groan at the meeting of their tongues. She feels the hardness of his cock against her, and she rises on her tiptoes, trying to climb up his body. Jamie breaks the kiss, smiles softly, as the crowd begins to sing Auld Lang Syne. 

**January 3**

**5:47 a.m.**

“Ye ken I wasna going to give in, Madam Prime Minister. Independence is as much a part of me as the lochs and munros in which I grew up.” The bedroom is bathed in an early morning light, a pale blue shadow covers the room.

“I did,” Gillian confirms.

“So, who were ye doing the favour? Her? Or me?” He hears her soft snort over the phone line. 

“I dinnae ken what ye’re on about, James Fraser,” the redhead snaps. “I sent a rep from the NHS to talk to ye.”   
  
“Och, and the fact she’s exactly my type had nothing to do with it, aye?” He shifts against the headboard, glances at his houseguest.

“Puir coincidence,” Gillian lies. “So. Where do we stand?”

“The referendum has passed, Prime Minister. Ye ken this.”

“I dinnae give a shit about the referendum, Mr. Secretary. That was a foregone conclusion. An independent Scotland suits me fine, I just canna say as much in my current position. Did ye forget I got my start in the SNP?” Gillian gets to the point. “No, what I want to know is, where do ye stand with my best friend, Claire Beauchamp?”

Jamie laughs. He should have known. “There hasn’a been a whole lot of standing about, to be honest.” He pulls the sheet up higher over Claire’s shoulder. Over the past two nights he’s discovered she sleeps like the dead. “She’s incredible, Prime Minister. Smart. Sassy. Sexy. And she’ll be livid when she realizes what ye’ve done. That ye sent her on a fool’s errand.”

“I ken ye werena going to budge. But I’ll wager she gave ye plenty to think about. Knowing Claire she pointed out some flaws in yer plan. Flaws I expect ironed out in two years time, Sir, when I retire to the Highlands.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Jamie smiles, thinking back on their lunch together and the hard questions she asked. “Will ye tell her it was all an elaborate set-up?”

“When did ye figure it out?” the Prime Minister asks.

“When she told me yer connection.” Jamie adjusts the sheet again. “Plus, no one schedules a meeting on Hogmanay.” 

“I’ve been Claire’s wing-woman since Uni. Aye, she’ll be pissed at me, but she’ll get over it.” He can feel Gillian’s shrug over the phone. “Wish her a Guid New Year for me. And I’ll be calling the First Minister soon.”

“I will. And a Guid New Year to ye, too, Prime Minister.” He waits a beat. “Oh, and,” he clears his throat. “Thank ye. Truly.”

“I didna do it for you, James Fraser.” He hears the click as the Prime Minister hangs up.

“I might just kill her,” Claire says, her voice muffled by the mattress her face is currently pressed into. Jamie smiles and tosses his phone onto the nightstand.

“How much did ye hear, Sassenach?” He shifts down the mattress and rolls over to cover her body with his own. She emits a soft  _ oof _ , but Jamie ignores her. 

“More than I should have,” Claire says, slowly making her way on to her back. She loops her arms around his shoulders. “She took rather a huge risk. This could have gone very differently.”   
  


“Aye,” he agrees, settling his legs between hers. “Had I not lost my cool and called ye Sassenach the meeting would have gone much smoother, ye’d have made yer flight, and spent Hogmanay with some other man.”

“I’d have spent it with my friends, Joe and Gail, and been in bed, alone, by 11:00.” She shifts again, and brings their lower halves in better alignment. She can feel Jamie’s arousal on her lower belly. She arches into him ever so slightly, and watches as he bites his lower lip, and closes his eyes in response. 

“Does it ever stop?” he asks. “The wanting you?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Claire says quietly, “When I finally take my flight of shame home.”

Her eyes are liquid gold in the morning light, and he realizes he wants nothing more than to hold on to that treasure for the rest of his life. 

“Move to Scotland,” he says, impulsively. “Move in here, with me.”

“Jamie - “ she starts, her voice sounding a little panicked, her hands slipping from around his neck.

“No,” he says, rising up a little higher on his elbows. “I mean it. Stay in Scotland. If ye need a better incentive, work wi’ me on the NHS. Christ knows we could use yer expertise. And if ye heard as much as I think ye did, ye’re well aware that Independence is a foregone conclusion.”

He smiles that lopsided smile that gives her butterflies. She wonders whether that would ever go away, if she stayed. If she moved in with him. 

“Sassenach.” There’s a note of desperation in his voice. “Stay wi’ me. Please. I’m beggin’ ye.”

She hears the difference now, in  _ that _ name, in the way he says it. Not the cold, scolding tone of their first meeting, but something special, something intimate and secret. 

He bends his face to hers, the wanting clawing inside him, demanding to be fed. He likes how she strokes the back of his neck while they’re kissing, how she mewls when his lips leave hers to travel down her chest and capture a peaked nipple. 

She grabs his head and forces him to look at her. Her amber eyes direct him downwards, clearly indicating what she wants. Bedding Claire the past two days could be anything from languid to frenzied, gentle to rough. He wonders if it will always be this exciting, this unpredictable. With that half smile that never fails to arouse, he shimmies down her body, hands holding her thighs apart. His mouth is masterful, his tongue wicked. It doesn’t take long before she’s convulsing under him. He wipes his mouth on her thigh, then climbs back up her body. He slips himself in, feels an aftershock of her orgasm ripple through her, and he groans at the sensation. 

She presses on his lower back, stilling his movements. His eyes, dark like sapphires, gaze into hers. Still joined, still intertwined, Claire whispers, “I’ll stay. You asked me on Hogmanay if I ever just go for it. Well, Jamie Fraser, this is me just going for it.”

He moves in her then, slowly, deliberately.  With the barest turn of his head Jamie’s lips are millimeters from hers. He smiles that megawatt smile. 

“Welcome to Scotland, Sassenach.”


End file.
